


Death of a New Man

by Mad777Hatter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Professional Overwatch RPF
Genre: Angst, But Hanzo doesn't know, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm not sure if it should be major character death, Seppuku, Suicide Attempt, death of genji, hanzo centeric, we all know Genji is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad777Hatter/pseuds/Mad777Hatter
Summary: Hanzo was a man of tradition and as the clan's oyabun, he would do his duties at all costs. Even if it was killing his brother.However, where does the guilt caused by that sordid deed leave him?





	Death of a New Man

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by reading Macbeth and Hamlet. I tried to imagine what was going through Hanzo's mind after he murders Genji as his duty. I'm not sure how correctly I grasped his character, but I hope you find it to your liking.

The heady feeling of air he swallowed as if he was a thirsted man left alone in a dry, hot desert, left him dizzy and disoriented. It was as if he never breathed, never knew the sense of cherishing the little miracle his body did without him paying any cautious thought to it, the miracle of breathing. The white noise ringed in his ears insistently, reminding him along with his laboured panting about the mortal coil he was trapped in. He was nothing but a mere human, standing there, with a pleasure tickling and soothing a part he had long ignored, a satisfaction he had for so long denied himself.

Just as he was reeling from the novelty of the sensation he was feeling, he’s struck by the smell of blood, hot iron tang which slips along the air in his nostrils, mocking as he chokes on his breathe. He blinks his eyes, washing away the euphoria phase he was stuck in to take in the scene laid in front of him. A strangled gasp escapes his lips, looking with horror at the picture he painted in his intoxicated state.

Blood, red blood everywhere on the polished wood, on the bamboo walls, on the sacred scroll of his family on the wall, on the lifeless body fallen in front of him. The spike of satisfaction still hums on the background but is soon drowned by the hot painful sense of shame. He brings his hand up to cover his face in horror only to see his hands wet with blood and the stench of iron makes him gag. He feels how his hair is plastered to his face by his sweat and the blood of his victim.

His sword drops down listlessly beside him, his hands no longer has the power to carry the weapon which led him to this slaughter. He falls to his knees as the burden of his sin, shame and broken oaths weigh down on him. How did it end up like this? His mind draws blank, he just remembers his fury and bitterness, the green monster of jealousy as the taunts with sweet acrid tone teased him, gotten under his skin.

_‘But you never were his favourite, were you?’_

The words bring his vehemence back with a vengeance but it quickly gets tempered down when he remembers how he broke the oath he made to his father. His last words as he held his hands during his final hours.

_‘Take care of my little sparrow, Hanzo.’_

 

And now, he sits above his brother’s lifeless corpse, a promise broken, and a bone deep satisfaction that still whispers somewhere in the back of his head. He feels the shame getting stronger, cutting his airway, making him choke on the heavy air tinted with the coppery taste. He loathes himself for the satisfaction that still sings in the back of his head. He feels the sting of his eyes, a warning of flood gates to open and never stop. He doesn’t allow himself to shed a tear, he has no right to do so after the horrendous deed he committed.

He numbly looks at his brother, taking in the damage he had caused. The face is marred with burns and cuts, his black hair sticking to his forehead in disarray. How displeased he would be to find himself in such a state, he always loved to look his best. The thought brings a painful pang in Hanzo’s heart. He can’t stop his eyes trailing down from the scarred face to the twisted and broken body. He caused this, by losing control, by letting his rage, his resentment, his spite to take a hold of him and lead him to this unforgivable act.

He distantly hears the elders stepping in the dojo, singing praise, admiring the new head of Shimada clan to be a ruthless powerful leader. He watches blankly as they drag him away, the little sparrow. His brother. Genji.

The name flares a wound in his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, for tears to flow with no end. He wants to scream in agony, over and over until his throat bleeds and he can no longer utter a word. What has he done? He killed the only one person in this godforsaken hell that kept him sane. Why? Because he was getting out of line, that he should have been set straight? The sweet satisfaction that he felt soon bled into the acrimonious taste that filled his mouth. A kin slayer, that’s what Hanzo was, a shameless kin slayer who felt no remorse when he killed his brother with cold blood.

He rises, nods numbly along the praises he hears from the old fools around him. Their voices scratching his ears out, their words and acceptance feel meaningless in the face of what happened. What made him seek the approval of these ancient sad excuse of human beings, he can’t find it in his mind.

He bows his head, and excuses himself, walking outside of the dojo that still smells like death and betrayal. His stained black hair flows after him like beacon of ill fate. He enters his room, sliding the door close after him, beginning to strip methodically. To outside eyes he barely looks fazed, professionally getting rid of his blood-stained clothes and preparing for a bath to wash away the traces of the battle he came victorious in.

However, from inside, he feels his world is breaking apart. He washes and scrubs his skin, his hands, but no matter how many times he does, the blood is still there, it doesn’t go away. His skin is pink and raw from the intensive treatment but he doesn’t stop, he has to wipe away the blood, the smell of it, he has to have the relief. He knows somewhere deep inside of him that the relief would never come, that he has killed a part of himself today, a part that had a potential to be a good man. He cursed his own fate by his hands.

The dishonour of the crime he committed doesn’t leave him, and it is only fair, for the cost of a life is the restlessness of the one that took it. He can’t think of any act which would redeem his appalling action. He dresses back up, opening a closet to find a bottle of expensive liquor he was gifted for becoming the oyabun. He found the act indecent at the time, celebrating the death of his father for taking his place. He starts laughing at the irony as he opens the bottle and pours it in a sakazuki, receiving a fine drink at the day of his father's death and drinking it on the day of his brother’s murder.

One portion turns into two and two turns into too many that the bottle no longer contains a drink to drown his sorrow in. He growls in frustration. It’s not enough, he’s still acutely aware of what he had done. He leaves his room, sneaking quietly into the storage and snatches couple of bottles back to his room. He drinks and drinks, bottle after bottle until he no longer remembers his own name.

He passes out.

 

***

The sun light stabs his eyes as he opens them and he groans as he feels an unbearable pounding in his head, his tongue feels like sand paper and his mouth is dry. He closes his eyes less he finds some relief but his headache only intensifies. He can’t remember what happened last night that led to him being so disoriented and he tries to sit down by trembling arms. The strong smell of alcohol scrunches up his nose and shapes his mouth into a displeased frown. He looks around the room to remember. The room is a mess, bottles fallen haphazardly on the floor, the sakazuki is long forgotten beside the gifted bottle.

Memories come back so fast he feels the air got punched out of his lung. Under the harsh light of the day his action seems much graver than he felt. He closes his eyes, muttering over and over how it’s all a dream, that when he opens his eyes, all of the pain he felt will disappear, that Genji would come bursting through his room, making fun of how he can barely hold his liquor.

He opens his eyes.

Genji is still dead.

He gets up on shaky legs and goes to freshen up. He looks at the mirror and it looks as if he aged a decade over night. He feels a lump in his throat, he can barely breathe around it. Still, his face stares back undeterred, as if it’s incapable of displaying any kind of emotion other than his stoic blank look He takes a deep breath and goes back go his room, hiding the evidence of his midnight weakness.

He dresses up, grooming his hair and stands with squared shoulders as he slides his room open and steps out. People don’t make eye contact with him, shying away as he walks towards the dojo. He hears whispers behind his back, the frightened voice of the servants and henchmen. Of course, they are terrified, he didn’t bear mercy over his own brother, why would he bear mercy towards anyone else? The thought makes his stomach clench uncomfortably.

He sees the elders gathered in the dojo. It looks clean and pristine, as if the last night was a mere nightmare Hanzo’s mind fabricated. Hanzo is not fooled. The scroll still bears the slash of his sword, the traces of his brother's blood. He swallows thickly and walks to the alter holding the disgraced blade. He asks quietly about the funeral and the ceremony necessary for his brother’s death. The elders scoff, laughing as how a disgraced member of the clan does not deserve an honourable burial, that they left his brother's cold corpse outside the castle to be picked like trash. Hanzo feels sick, the guilt he was feeling intensifies tenfold. He picks his sword, a new determination in his mind and walks outside of the dojo, demanding not be disturbed during the day.

He goes to the kitchen demanding a bowl of sukiyaki to be prepared and brought to his room. The cook hurries up, fumbling in order go make his master's favourite dish. Hanzo walks back to his room sitting calmly and lights couple of incense sticks and sets his tatami to prepare for the ceremony.  

He hears the soft footsteps of the maid who brought him his final meal. He waits patiently as she quietly slides his door open, bows her head and put his meal inside the room. He quickly dismisses her before she can fuss over him and brings the tray close, savouring his final meal. It tastes like ash, barely holding a flavour. He knows it’s not the cook’s fault. ‌ It’s his guilt poisoning even his last meal with the stale bitter taste of shame. He chews slowly and thoughtfully, too stubborn to let his guilt ruining the ceremony.

He sets the tray outside as he finishes, and starts dressing in his white yukata, it would do instead of a shini-shozoku. He sets his sword in front the tatami he was sitting on, covering the blade end with a small white towel. It was true that seppuku was only preformed by either a tanto or a wakizashi but Hanzo thought it was only right that he should die by the sword which had disgraced him, which had taken his brother from him. He did not a have a Second, and it was perfectly fine. He did not want to burden anyone with the ill omen of being a kaishakunin. He would perform jumonji giri, bear his suffering quietly until he bleeds to death, passing away with his hand over his face with the shame of his heavy deed.

He sits down and starts writing his last words like any honourable samurai. A death poem.

 

“I have done a grave deed, didst thou not hear a noise, father?

Thou heard the owl scream and crickets cry on a night unlike any other,

The guardian spirits screamed ‘murder!’, I did not mark their words,

As they prayed I buried mine hands in a blood red like rose,

One cried ‘God bless us!’ and ‘Amen’ answered the other with a bow,

Under their gaze no ‘Amen’ could pass my lips as my soul stepped low,

‘Sleep no more! Thou do murder sleep.’ Whispered my doze as it fled,

No ‘Amen ‘could bless Hanzo, for his brother is dead.”

 

He finishes it with flourish if the brush, setting it aside with his Sumi set. He feels his heart aching painfully, for the brother he murdered, for the years and years he stole from his life time, for the short life of his own that now has to come to an end without coming to any fruition. He sighs, getting up and getting the bottle of sake which remained from his drunken night. He pours some in his sakazuki, sipping the drink in a mockery of a little ceremony prior his impending death.

 

He picks the poem, reading it and checking it for the last time. He hears the teasing voice of Genji, laughing at him for being a perfectionist. He takes a deep breath, putting the poem in front of him and picking the sword. He opens his yukata and takes a long shuddering breath, moving the sword high and down to stab himself in the abdomen, finally being relived of the shame that grips his heart and mind. He would embrace the pain and death like an old friend.

The pain never comes.

He opens his eyes, to see his arms frozen in place, the sword a whisper away from colouring his white kimono red like a blank canvas. His arms are struggling against the power which holds him from finishing himself off. He tries hard, grinding his teeth, focusing hard on the task of performing the seppuku. Instead his sword chips in the battle of powers, the shard flying to his face, grazing his cheek. He drops the sword in shock, belatedly notices the blue glow that flares from his arms. He feels their heavy gaze on his bowed head. He looks up.

They float above him; their expression screams of disappointment. He feels shame crawling up his throat, blocking his airways.

“Masters,” he whispers quietly, “Is this not the right thing to do? I have broken the vow I made to my father, killed my own flesh and blood. Is death not the only honourable way which I could seek my redemption?”

The dragons keep looking at him, not saying a word, blinking lazily as they floated above him. Hanzo feels desperate, he rushes to get up, stumbling on his feet gracelessly.

“Is death not the way to seek honour for a noble warrior after falling in the clutches of sin? Is it not how to wash away the sordid deed these hands have committed?” He raises his hands, showing them to the old guardian spirits. He watches with horror as they are still covered in blood, the stench of it filling the room. He blinks in shock to see it gone, the smell but an illusion. He falls to his knees.

“Death is a sweet release, an escape from the guilt weighing this flesh.” He mutters as he extends his arms. “I do not deserve the mercy which death offers, I am no honourable warrior. I am a disgraced criminal.” His voice cracks. He feels hot tears fall in down his face, causing the cut on his face to burn.

“I am to live with a brother’s blood on my hands, living the rest if my days with regret and grief for the foolishness of myself. I should never be forgiven.” He sobs, burying his face against the floor, his nail catching on the edge of the mat, grounding him to the reality that he feels slips from his fingers like sand. He still smells blood despite knowing there is none. He is doomed to live with his felony.

Hours pass and his tears has gone dry. He raises his head and the dragons no longer there. He starts stripping out of his white kimono. He is unworthy of being dressed of something so pure, he does not deserve to be dressed like the innocent. He holds them neatly, putting them far insider his closet. He dresses in his western suit, a suit he committed numerous abominable acts in, a suit fitting for his irredeemable soul. His eyes fall onto the sword. He holds it, inspecting it closely and seeing nothing. Everything is blurred, he can’t feel anything.

 He opens his hair, lets it cascade down past his shoulder to his waist. He gathers a fistful of the inky strands and moves his sword behind his neck. A swift sharp move and the ground is covered by ebony strings of what was once his hair. Despite his endless fondness for his locks, he feels nothing as he sees them on the floor, no mourning, no pang of regret. He feels nothing.

He does not sleep, watching the moon rise and set. The sun rises an it marks a new day. For most people, it’s a sign of a new birth, of a new chapter of life. He is dead, no longer the man he was before. The sun doesn’t mark a birth for him, it marks death of a new man.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the reading. Please comment to tell me your opinion, and the kudos is more than appreciated. :)


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